I noticed it this morning. A large gold streak near the centre of the biggest maple in my neighbours yard. I like it. A splash of brilliance on God’s part, I think. An announcement: Fall’s comin’, even though the butterfly ballet continues, the rhubarb still stands at attention, and raspberries, ruby and sweet, still dangle in the patch out back.
Hurrah to the season of pleasurable returns. Return to routine. Return to learning. Return to warm sweaters, cups of hot cocoa, and most noticeable, a productive return for the season of hard labour in the garden.
A good friend detests fall for that very reason. She and her husband plant vast gardens. They share liberally, but by the time the last tomato blushes, the last zucchini freezes, and the last jar of berries seals (yes…they still preserve their produce!) she swears rather vociferously that next year, the garden will only be half the size, and if the man who plants, plants so much again next spring he can take care of the blasted garden all by himself. She’s going to Mexico–alone. I exaggerate, but something like that.
She’s cut back a bit, but her country garden is still large enough to intimidate most market gardeners. How she manages is so much of a mystery to me that I’ve contemplated setting up a live-cam somewhere in the vicinity.
Autumn and I have been friends too long for all that. A giant garden could seriously jeopardize our relationship. In the backyard of Hope House, in a corner we call (rather presumptuously) our “garden,” we have twelve tomato plants and six winter onions. (I had more of those, but they wilted in a margarine tub in the garage, while I waited too long to plant.)
Salsa, anyone? Raspberry and rhubarb crumble?
(By the way Sunny Side Up features a great story this week–check it out!)